


Boredom (and the other thing)

by JaqofSpades



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1666466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 50 in Fallujah, and Bass is inching towards his personal ground zero.  They haven't left the barracks in five days, and boredom has him by the short and curlies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boredom (and the other thing)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Querulousgawks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Querulousgawks/gifts).



> This is a double duty fill: for querulous gawks prompt from the nsfw meme, Bass bending over to pick something up to tempt Miles, AND for the prompt table over on the LJ community - Fill Number 08, Rules.

Day 50 in Fallujah, and Bass is inching towards his personal ground zero. They haven't left the barracks in five days, and boredom has him by the short and curlies.

Boredom, and the other thing.

Miles is in his face 24-7. Miles and his gunpowder tang. Miles and his burnt chocolate eyes. Miles and that flash of furry fucking heaven every time he reaches up to the gun racks, or stretches, or strips down to change.

He knows what it tastes like, now, that stretch of skin next to those sharp hipbones. Knows the sounds the man makes, and the way he shakes with laughter when you tickle him with your beard. He'd thought he knew everything there was to know about Miles Matheson, but three days on furlough in Amman had taught him otherwise.

And now it's all he can think about.

“Hey, Miles. Wanna hit the showers?”

The deadeye he gets in return is answer enough, and yes, they'd agreed they wouldn't do this on duty. But Miles is the one who likes to break all the fucking rules, so he hadn't actually thought it would stick! Besides, he's hard all the freaking time, so hard that sooner or later someone was going to fall over the pole in his fatigues. Better Miles than their CO, he figures.

So maybe he plots a bit.

Shows off. Waves it around. Lets the towel slip and gives himself a few strokes when everyone else's back is turned. Watches Miles chew on his lip and smiles. All yours, buddy. You just gotta come and get it.

Miles screws up his face and hightails it out to the exercise yard. Dick.

Bass shrugs and heads into the storeroom to finish off the inventory he's been assigned for their week off patrol. He's pretty sure the USMC has someone better qualified to count their fucking toys, but here he is. Maybe if he gets mad enough at Miles he'll be able to focus enough to get through these last three boxes. Maybe there's a crackerjack at the bottom or something.

He's ass up in a box of new body armour when the hair prickles on the back of his neck. Miles is in the room and … yeah. Looking at him like that. Huh.

Bass jumps down off the pallet and heads over to the box of grenades.

Drops them at Miles' feet.

“Oh! Look! I dropped something,” he trills in his best Scarlett O'Hara voice.

Miles rolls his eyes, but when Bass actually follows through – bends over, right in front on him, to slowly scoop up the munitions – he can feel the air thicken between them. Fuck yeah. Bass sucks in a breath, cock already jumping, when Miles starts to cough. He disguises it for a second or two, then dissolves into a helpless splutter of mirth.

“Really, Bass? You think your ass is that fucking irresistible?”

And maybe he pouts. A little bit. Because – fuck. Yes! His ass should be irresistible. He just has to think about Miles' ass and hello public embarrassment. (Fuck that – he just has to think about Miles' _mouth_.) And he refuses to entertain the idea that maybe he's in this thing alone. He can't be.

Miles' face softens and he checks over his shoulder before stepping in.

“Look. Didn't say it was easy, okay? But three more days, and you can drop all the shit you like for me. But until then … eyes forward, Marine.”

He's probably right, Bass accepts as he turns to the last box. He can smell them even before he gets the lid off, all those beautiful new rifles. A5s, they'd said. Oiled and fired and ready to go. Yeah, like this is gonna help him control his fucking libido.

“Oh baby,” he moans as he lifts the first rifle clear of the box. “Jesus.”

He starts to build it up, snapping on the sight and fumbling for a cartridge even as he breathes in the purity of the barrel. There's no sweat ingrained into her yet, but soon, soon … he can't stop himself from trailing his fingers along the length of the barrel, and bringing her to his shoulder, to sight ...

“Fuck.”

Bass lifts his head to find Miles shooting home the bolt on the armoury door.

“Huh?”

“Just … put the rifle down, Bass. Or …” Miles crushes him back against the box, the rifle between them, his hands yanking at Bass' buttons and zipper “don't.”

Bass slides the cartridge out the weapon, stows it safely back in the box, then pushes away a little so he can slide the barrel up and along Miles' chest. The chords of his neck. That vulnerable, shivery spot behind his ear.

Miles grinds against him, grunting out his approval, then drops to his knees. He starts slow, but a nudge or two with the rifle soon has him tugging mercilessly, one hand working Bass' cock while the other intertwines with his own as they cradle the M-40. 

“Thought I was the perverted fuck?” Bass whimpers, but he's not really expecting an answer. Not with Miles' mouth on him. Not with that sweet-smelling length of steel in his arms, firing increasingly lurid thoughts of what comes next.

Not when he knows the answer already, and fucking _loves_ the fact.


End file.
